


The Iceman And The Sociopath - Getting Together

by LadyGlinda



Series: The Iceman And The Sociopath [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Dubious Ethics, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Is 32 And Sherlock Is 25, No Eurus Holmes, POV Mycroft Holmes, Redbeard was a dog, Sherlock Is Basically Eurus, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Smut, Sociopathic Sherlock Holmes, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-08 13:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18895480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes was a little boy, he was far from being normal. When he burnt down the family's house, he was sent away. Short after, he died in a fire in his new home. Or so Mycroft was told… He is in for a big surprise that will turn his life upside down.Or: Sherlock is Eurus.





	1. A Big Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> This is no repeat of "The Final Problem". It's basically me playing with the idea that there is no evil Holmes sister but just Mycroft being himself and Sherlock being the evil one.
> 
> There is just a brief mention of John Watson in a different role. He will not appear as Sherlock's sidekick.
> 
> I'll just smuggle this in here: I'm a total idiot. When I started writing this fic, I was well aware it takes place in January. But somehow… I forgot that and thought it was spring as there was a break of weeks before I continued it. So when you read something about a sea of flowers in Mycroft's garden, please just pretend that in this AU, Januaries in the UK are warm spring months as I can't change that anymore now 🤦🤦🤦

“But… What?!”

“Well, Mycroft, I know this must be a shock for you…” Mummy had the decency to look sheepish but it didn’t soothe him in the least.

“Oh, you could say that! I thought he was dead! You said he died when he was… seven?!”

“Well, yes. We thought it was for the better…”

Mycroft huffed out a rather hysterical laugh that none of his colleagues would have thought him capable of producing. “Better? Letting me believe my little brother is _dead_ is better than… Than _what_?! And why are you telling me _now_ he's alive?”

“He… um… will be released in a few weeks. They say he's changed. He hasn't set fire to anything or tried to kill anyone there for three years after all.” Mummy wiped some invisible mote of dust from her dress and avoided his look.

“For three years. Which means previously he…” Mycroft broke off, considering – or rather hoping – he had developed a fever and was just imagining this conversation.

Father cleared his throat and fumbled with his old-fashioned tie. “And he'll become twenty-five in two weeks and he would have to move to another facility as the age limit is twenty-four in this one; you know, they still see them as youths until then. But they did say his prognosis is good.” He sounded as if he wanted to convince himself rather than Mycroft.

“So you want to tell me,” Mycroft slowly said, “that my little brother Sherlock, who set fire to our house and was brought to a prison for criminal children, where he supposedly set fire again and died doing it, is in fact still living in said prison where he did what, kill people?! And now he will be released because he's miraculously become nice and decent and will never do anything bad again?” _And you let me believe he died so I could never visit him and support him and he thinks I forgot about him?!_

He was feeling as shaken as never before since he had grown up – threats against the UK, risk of war, the imbecilic PM being a danger to his own country; this was all nothing compared to this moment. He was rather sure he wouldn't recognise himself if he looked into a mirror now.

“Um, yes,” Mummy and Father said simultaneously, both looking down on their hands.

“I want to visit him. Tomorrow.” Mycroft glared at his parents, daring them to refuse him his wish.

But Father nodded. “We thought you would say that, so, yes, it's been arranged.”

Mycroft got up and walked to the window of his office, feeling dizzy and shocked about the fact he's about to see his little brother again, at whose (obviously empty) grave he'd cried bitter tears and whom he'd never forgotten, and he was torn between terror and happiness.


	2. Visiting Sherrinford

Mycroft's legs were shaking when he entered the small room even though he tried to look as composed as ever. A white table, two chairs – that was the entire furniture; the walls were white, too, looking freshly painted. What he had seen of this institution, Sherrinford, resembled a hospital more than a prison, and a very unpleasant one. It was all sterile and white and cold. He had not seen any rooms of the… inhabitants though. He assumed there were bars or something else to keep them contained.

What was most disturbing about this place was the silence. He had expected screams and noise and… smells but it was all quiet and the only odour he could make out was artificial lemon.

It was a scary place… A fortress in the middle of the sea! And he, an important man in the ranks of the British Government, had never heard about it!

“Number 1895 will be there in two minutes,” one of the guards who had led him into the room said. “He will wear handcuffs. No touching.” He was a redhead and not unattractive, if Mycroft was inclined to notice such facts in this situation.

“He's my little brother,” Mycroft rasped out, and the thought of a Sherlock in chains made his throat get tight.

“He killed a guard by biting his throat,” the man retorted in a tone as if he was informing him about the ingredients of Sherlock's lunch.

“He what?! When was that?”

“Four years ago. Said he'd been provoked…”

Mycroft's heart was racing now. “And they want to let him walk away in a couple of weeks?!”

“Well… Doctor Watson says he's no danger anymore.” The man shrugged. “He knows best, our doctor. Anyway… We'll be right before the door. Just scream if you need help.” The sudden smile on his face was rather malicious.

Mycroft cringed. “God…”

“Ah, just kidding. He won't do anything like that. They never do anything that stupid right before they get released…”

“What a relief…”

The man grinned and then the door opened up behind Mycroft. He slowly turned and saw a young man with ruffled dark curls, dressed in something that looked like black pyjamas, flanked by two guards, and his jaw dropped. He was stunning. Beautiful. Breathtaking. He was Sherlock. His little brother.

Sherlock sat down on the other side of the table. He smiled. “Brother Mycroft! What a nice surprise! You could have visited me before!” He pouted theatrically. “It's so _boring_ here!”

Mycroft was hardly able to breath.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Damn, Mummy always refused to show me pictures of you, grown up. Who would have thought! When I left our beautiful home, you were thirteen and fat. Now look at you! What a stunning stallion you've become!”

“Um…” _What?!_

“Why do you look so scared? I thought you were a big, bad government official! How many people have you ordered to be killed?”

“Nobody!” That was not quite the truth but he hadn't done anything like this _officially_. He had just given advice to people who did such things… And he hadn't had any sleepless nights because of it as it had been a necessity. It was nothing he liked to discuss with his little brother though, least of all in a prison… In any way Sherlock had a point: he wasn't easily scared. Never, actually. But now he was…

“Shame.” Sherlock pouted again but his eyes were sparkling. He was very obviously thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Um… So… Our parents visited you?” Why had he not asked Mummy and Father yesterday?! Oh yes, because he'd been shocked and he hadn't been that good at _thinking_ …

Sherlock hummed. “Once a year. On my birthday. Christmas didn’t work because you were at home but as soon as you were gone to school and then uni and after that your job, they could come.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. Once a year… “Did anyone else come?”

“Well, no. I don't exactly have friends. Except for our big lovely family here!” Sherlock beamed at him. “All those nice people! Just kidding. They are creepy.”

“You… You… killed a guard, I was just told.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, God…” Mycroft had thought nothing could ever shock him anymore before yesterday. He had thought he had seen and heard it all. He had been cool and superior. And now he was _here_ …

Sherlock smiled brightly but frowned a second later. “I bet they meant Victor. Pretty man! It's a shame. I might have lost control; it’s all a bit of a blur but I seem to remember I had my reasons. But it's all good now. I'm healed.”

“You're… How so? What did they do?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Do? Nothing. Therapy you mean? Oh, I had plenty of them. With the nasty Doctor Campbell for example, God, was she boring… And the old Doc Tristan! Tried to get in my pants, the filthy raisin. Brrr! But Johnny Watson said I'm fine so _'hello, world outside'!_ ”

Mycroft was fighting the impulse to jump up and run away. He had thought his world had been turned upside down when Sherlock, his over-intelligent, complicated baby brother, had 'died'. Then again the day before when he'd been told he in fact had not. And again now that he was talking to this gorgeous, beautiful, desirable lunatic/killer that was his little brother…

“Can I move in with you, then?”

“What?!”

Sherlock looked sad all at once; he had started nibbling at his nails with a pensive expression. “When they let me out – where will I go? I've got enough money – this trust from Grandma Siliva that our parents kept for me. But where will I live? I can't be alone. I'm not used to it! I mean, yes, I have a cell for myself but… Do you really want me to live somewhere without anyone to look after me?”

Mycroft felt as if a huge hole had opened up right in front of his feet. “I'm in the office all day,” he stammered, knowing it was pointless. He was the string-puller, the influencer at the highest position, and he was completely helpless in the face of his baby brother.

“Oh, no problem. I'm sure I'll find something to do during the day and we can be together in the evening! It will be great! Sometimes I crawled into your bed when I was little, don't you remember?” Sherlock beamed at him.

“I do… You tried to burn me in my sleep…”

“That was an accident.”

“And then you replaced my apple juice with…”

“Ah, that was a little joke.”

Mycroft nodded weakly.

“I won't do anything nasty anymore. To you,” Sherlock said, and there was an amused glint in his eyes.

Mycroft, who had very well noticed the little pause between his words, felt as if he was trapped. Well, he was. He had just found his little brother back, and God - how much he had loved the little bugger, as dangerous and disturbed as he had been from the beginning on. And there had been good times back then. Sometimes little Sherlock had been sweet and had allowed him to cuddle with him. And he couldn’t drop him now. Where should Sherlock go if not to him? To their old parents? They would probably suffer heart attacks within days…

He had no idea how he should cope with Sherlock but he thought of all those lonely years that Sherlock had been spending in this cold, anonymous institution, not even going by his name but a number. And perhaps he was okay now. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore. And who else but his own big brother should take care of him and help him become a decent, good man if he still had problems? He owed Sherlock to at least try it! After all the love for a sibling never really disappeared, even if one thought the other one was dead and then found out he had turned into a murderer…

“Yes,” he said. “Of course you can stay with me.”

“Great!” Sherlock looked genuinely happy and patted his hand rather painfully, making the handcuffs clank on the table. “I can't wait to get out and move in with you! We'll have so much fun together!”

And Mycroft looked at this perfect specimen with these incredible eyes, those high cheekbones, those lush lips, in short this ridiculously handsome man that would soon walk around in his house, and he had the strange feeling he was not so much trapped as doomed.


	3. Sherlock Comes Home

“Wow! That's a house! Never thought one gets so much money for working for the government.”

“Um, well, it's actually Uncle Rudy's house. I inherited it when he died.”

“Oh, sure. Makes sense. As you're the only nephew he had. Well, no, wait…” Sherlock made a pensive face.

Mycroft felt rather guilty now. Of course this house should be Sherlock's as well as his own. He too had got a trust from their grandmother, which he had never touched so far as he did earn quite a lot of money. But this house… It wasn't fair that he alone had received it.

Sherlock sensed his distress and smirked. “Just teasing you. I don't care too much for possessions. And you let me live here after all!”

Mycroft smiled timidly. He had taken care of the biggest en-suite guest room, right next to his own upstairs bedroom, with the help of Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper that came twice a week to do the wash and the cleaning (even though he was very neat and she would never find anything really dirty.).

She had been working for him for five years already and even though he hardly ever met her as he was in the office all day, he trusted her with taking care of his house and being completely discreet – not that he had any folders lying around or anything else that gave away state secrets. He had told her his brother had had problems as a child and young adult without getting too specific apart from telling her she'd best just leave him alone when she was there, and she had said she was fine with it. He knew she had quite a rough past herself and was as tough as she was warm-hearted and he hoped _(prayed)_ she and Sherlock would get along.

The room was now painted in light, friendly colours (blue and green) and fully furnished with a king sized waterbed just like his own, a big television and everything else Sherlock would hopefully like to have. He had bought the clothes Sherlock had asked him for – all black, even the underwear. He had also got him every sort of toiletries he had thought Sherlock might like. “I hope you will feel at home here, Sherlock. If you need anything else, please, just say the word and I'll get it for you. This is your home for as long as you want.” He tried not to think, _'until they arrest you for the next murder/arson/mayhem.'_

He had the strange feeling that Sherlock had sensed his thoughts as he gave him a mocking smile that made him blush. But then Sherlock reached out and patted his arm, as it seemed to be his habit. “I'm glad you're giving me this chance, brother mine. I'll do all I can to not disappoint your faith in me.”

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock could even talk without sarcasm and amusement in his voice, and he forced a smile onto his face. “I'm sure we'll be fine here together. Let me show you your room, and then we'll have lunch, all right?”

“Great!” Sherlock now firmly grabbed his arm and he was close enough so Mycroft could smell him. He smelled good. Body wash, deodorant, and underneath his sweet skin. And his hand was so warm…

Mycroft almost stumbled when he started climbing the stairs but Sherlock stabilized him. “Be careful. We don't want you to hurt yourself,” he said in a breathy voice, and it made Mycroft shudder, and it made him shudder even more that his brother's not quite appropriate closeness was not at all unpleasant.

*****

Mycroft watched Sherlock shovelling rice and chicken into his mouth with gusto. His brother was very thin. “Didn’t… didn’t they give you enough to eat?” he asked carefully.

“Hm?” Sherlock gave him a surprised look and swallowed his food. “Oh, no, it was fine. I was never hungry. And they didn’t cook as half as good as you! You must teach me!”

“Oh, yes, sure.” Cooking lessons for his sociopathic brother. Why ever not.

“Did you miss me?” Sherlock asked him before taking the next bite.

“Miss you… Of course I missed you.”

“Did you cry when they told you I'm dead?” Sherlock continued his merciless interrogation.

Mycroft remembered the day all too well. And the funeral… No open coffin, of course. Little Sherlock had allegedly burnt to ashes… “Yes. I cried very hard for a very long time.”

“Aw, that's cute!” Sherlock seemed pleased.

Mycroft managed a weak smile. “If you put it like this… So… I was told… in the prison… and you said, too…” He stopped, not knowing how to put it in words that wouldn’t sound offensive.

Sherlock tilted his head. “You're not making much sense, brother. Just spit it out!”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “You killed people there!”

“Oh, that. Ancient history. Was bored. Awfully and utterly bored. And they were so _annoying_ , you wouldn’t _believe_ it!”

Mycroft's long fingers cramped around his fork and knife. He remembered child Sherlock. A very handsome boy with big blue eyes that could change their colour to green within seconds and without any reason. Pretty, scary little Sherlock. Cute like an angel and completely unpredictable…

He still saw him in his mind's eye with his hand cut open, asking, _'Which one's pain?'_ Cutting Aunt Lamia's leg when she was having tea with them. Smiling innocently when she screamed in pain. A true little psychopath… But he'd never brought any tortured animals home. In fact he had been rather fond of every furry or feathered creature. They'd had a dog, Redbeard, and Sherlock had seemed to love him dearly, and vice versa. He'd used to sleep in Sherlock's bed (or Mycroft's, when Sherlock had very rarely spent the night in it) and Mycroft remembered how they'd been cuddling up together. Sherlock had even cried when the old dog had died of cancer. Strange…

“I don't like _people_ ,” Sherlock said now, having finished his meal. “They make me sick.”

“I see.” It wasn’t as if Mycroft didn’t understand that… He was always trying to fit in and he had to work around all sorts of annoying – and very 'important' – people but he didn’t like them very much, either…  He was just too different from the usual… goldfish. And if _he_ was already too different… Still… “So… Do you have any… plans?”

“You mean – getting a job or something?”

“Well, yes. I know you don't have to work with all the money in your trust that you can spend as you wish but… with your brain, you'll need to do something.” Of course Sherlock didn’t have any classical education or a degree but given his brilliant mind, he could get that in any field he liked to in record time Mycroft was sure. Just like he did.

“Ah, sure. Soon. But for the moment, I just want to relax a bit. Perhaps work in your garden! It could do with some flowers!”

Mycroft watched him in horror. His murderous little brother was planning to plant flowers in his garden? Surely he was he mocking him again?

But Sherlock smiled brightly. “I was locked up in a prison for almost twenty years. No flowers, hardly any fresh air. It will be nice.”

Mycroft nodded vehemently. “Yes. Of course! You can plaster the garden with all the flowers you want.” He would gladly let his credit card get overheated if it made Sherlock happy. Flowers… How unexpected…

“Great! There will be butterflies!” Sherlock said dreamily.

“You won't catch them and nail them to…”

“ _No_!” Sherlock glared at him, and it looked scary. “I just want to watch and enjoy them! Perhaps some will land on my hand and then I can feel their tiny little feet and study their beauty! With my eyes! What are you thinking of me!”

“I'm so sorry! It's… just so new… and…” How stupid of him! He had only just thought that Sherlock had never been mean to animals after all!

Sherlock nodded darkly. “And you think I'm an insane killer who will murder you in your sleep and torture butterflies. Perhaps I should just find another prison or a hotel or hang myself or…”

“No! I want you here! I want you with me!” And it was true, no matter how much this mercurial man was terrifying him, not only with his scary past and his temper but also with his luring beauty.

Sherlock didn’t look convinced. “If you're sure…”

“I am! Sorry! Would you like dessert?”

“Something with chocolate?” Sherlock asked hopefully, his eyes brightening up, and Mycroft nodded firmly.

“Definitely something with chocolate.”

“Oh, I _love_ you, brother dear!”

And Mycroft swallowed and thought, _'I love you, too, God help me.'_


	4. The First Night

Mycroft wouldn't admit it but he was relieved when his colleague Sir Edwin called and asked him to come to the office for an hour. The silence between him and Sherlock had stretched uncomfortably after lunch. Sherlock had never initiated a conversation, just smiled at him in a rather disturbing way, and Mycroft had not really known what to ask him. What _should_ he ask Sherlock, apart from how many people he had killed or if he still liked to set fire to persons and buildings? Every topic seemed touchy and there were just not that many issues to talk about with someone who had been locked away for almost all his life. Sherlock had never walked the streets of London before. He had never seen a musical or a play, and he'd only had a tiny television in his cell.

Well, music had been a safe choice. Sherlock had brought his violin from Sherrinford. Mycroft used to play the piano. It was something they could talk about. But for how long? Mycroft couldn’t even discuss any books with him; he did possess plenty of them but he simply had no time or energy to read.

He would have to take Sherlock to the city of course. He was living in a very calm and secluded area but Sherlock would want to do shopping or see the sights. The thought made Mycroft very nervous. But the doctors had said he was fine now, hadn't they? He had to rely on their judgement of his brother's mental health even though... it was a bit difficult...

Mycroft was a very smart man. He could deduce people. But he had never been able to deduce Sherlock, not even as a small child. And he had the strange feeling that Sherlock knew everything about his brain powers and probably surpassed them, and that Sherlock might be able to show him what he wanted to see (not even mentioning the possibility that he had shown and told _his doctors_ what they wanted to see or hear...) and that he was maybe able to manipulate him (as he certainly manipulated everybody else...).

"You're sure it's okay if I leave you alone? It won't be for long." Perhaps he should hide all his matches and lighters? Lock Sherlock into his room? Beg him to stay in the house and not just kill any random stranger because he was bored?

Sherlock smiled his disturbing bright smile. "Of course! You will have to go to work from tomorrow morning on again anyway, won't you?"

"Well, perhaps I can take a few days off..." He should have taken care of that before but it was such a busy time at work. As always, actually… But Sherlock being left to stay on his own all day. It was _asking_ for problems. Big problems.

"No, no, it's not necessary. You can do that when it gets warmer so you can enjoy your garden with the new flowers I'm going to plant. You have such an interesting nose! Imagine if butterflies landed on it!" Sherlock giggled and the sound made Mycroft shiver.

"Yes, that would be... lovely... Well, I'll go then." What would Sherlock do in the meantime? "I do have lots of books if you want to read something?"

"Oh, I will. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine and I won't do anything you wouldn't do!" Sherlock winked.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. "Yes, well. See you later then. If you need anything, just call me on my mobile phone."

"Will you also get me one?" Sherlock asked and then gnawed on his bottom lip, looking up to him through those _lashes_ (and Mycroft thought he had certainly never paid attention to another man's lashes before…).

"Oh, definitely..." He would take care of that on his way home. Another thing he should have done before. He would be able to track his little brother once he started exploring the city on his own... And he would get him a ticket for the Tube so he could do this easily. He couldn’t lock Sherlock up in this house; he didn’t want it to be another prison for him. Even though the thought of Sherlock alone in the city made him feel very uncomfortable…

Sherlock gave him a knowing smile. "Fine. Everything will be fine, brother mine."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. Definitely." Of course it would… What _could_ even go wrong?

He was both extremely nervous and relieved to be able to leave his house - his only real refuge until this day – at least for a short time.

*****

Mycroft was lying flat on his back in his dark bedroom. They had retreated early and he was physically tired. But he didn’t fall asleep.

He was listening into the silence of his house. He had heard the shower in the bathroom that was attached to Sherlock's chamber. He had heard the noises of teeth getting brushed with an electric toothbrush. But since Sherlock had gone into his room, he hadn’t heard anything.

When would he come? And he would, Mycroft was sure. All these little hints at his attractiveness, the openly appreciative looks – Sherlock saw him as prey. And was that really so surprising? He wondered if his brother had ever had sex with someone. Well, someone… _consenting_ … Someone he had not… _killed_ afterwards… Mycroft could have found out about his brother's history in the prison; he was sure they would have given him access to his file, and he could have spoken with his doctors. But there were things he didn’t _want_ to know… Anyway – Sherlock was a (physically) healthy young man. He had to have… needs. And nobody was here except for Mycroft.

And what would he do then? Explain to him that they couldn’t do such things as they were against the law and the morals of society? He could practically _hear_ Sherlock laugh. Tell him he didn’t want it? Sherlock would deduce that as what it was within a second – a lie. No matter how frightening his little brother was – he was also the most desirable man Mycroft had ever laid eyes on and no matter how forbidden and taboo it was, Mycroft's groin tingled when he just imagined being with him.

But Sherlock didn’t come. Instead muffled moaning came to Mycroft's ears. At first he stupidly thought Sherlock was in pain or having nightmares, but then he heard his own name getting moaned and then it was rather clear what Sherlock was doing… and with whom on his mind… Mycroft could picture him so well – lying on the big bed, naked, sweaty, his hand around his cock, stroking himself relentlessly, little drops of pre-come appearing in his slit steadily… It was an image to keel over about…

 _“Oh, yes, Mycroft!”_ came from the other side of the wall, and somehow Mycroft's right hand grabbed for the half-empty bottle of lube in the top drawer of his nightstand, and he shook his blanket off to grasp his plump cock, and he ended up stroking himself in the rhythm of Sherlock's moans and grunts and when Sherlock cried out and yelled his name so loudly that he would have even heard it from the other side of the house, Mycroft pulsed all over his hand, just so refraining from shouting _Sherlock's_ name to the ceiling, and he slumped into the pillows, feeling exhausted in more than the physical sense, and then there was silence from the other side.

Mycroft fell asleep half an hour later, hearing nothing from Sherlock anymore, and he wondered how long it would take until he was in need of psychological help himself. Considering what just had happened, he might already be exactly that…


	5. The Awkwardness Continues

“Tea, sir.”

Mycroft winced so hard that he pushed one of the thick folders that were waiting to be looked at from his desk.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” His personal assistant Anthea gave him an apologetic and rather concerned smile. He wasn't exactly known to be easy to scare.

Mycroft shook his head. “Not your fault at all. Thank you.” He took the mug from her hand. “Can you prepare the report for the Johnson matter until lunchtime?”

“Yes, of course. It's almost finished.”

Mycroft thanked all heavens for his flawless PA. She never forgot anything. She never failed at doing anything. He was sure he could rely on her when his own mind was going to pieces over the next days/ weeks/ months…

He and Sherlock had had breakfast together. Mycroft had been hardly able to look up but Sherlock had been in a splendid mood and told him he'd never slept that well. When Mycroft had mumbled that he was pleased to hear that, Sherlock had asked him if he had slept well, too, which he had affirmed, and then Sherlock had innocently added that he hoped he hadn't disturbed Mycroft in any way before falling asleep and Mycroft had downed his boiling hot coffee so he wouldn’t have to answer and then spent five minutes with gurgling with cold water to cool the burns in his mouth and throat. Sherlock had been all worried and helpful and big eyes, but a small, malicious smile had pulled at his lips, and Mycroft had been grateful when he had been allowed to flee the house to go to work.

And Sherlock? What would he do? How would he pass the time? Really with going to a gardening shop? Using a cab, being just a normal citizen? Planting nice flowers?

It was a picture that just didn’t seem to make any sense… Sherlock with a small shovel, scooping earth to plant some little beauties. Somehow it was much easier to imagine him with a knife in his hand and Mycroft felt deeply ashamed, unsettled and worried about this fact…

He forced himself to focus on his latest report. He had to work fast. The faster he was finished, the sooner he would be at home with his disturbing little brother, and he simultaneously wanted to be there as early as possible and just never again.

*****

“We're fine.” Mycroft sat down with the telephone. He had just stored their dinner (huge sandwiches from his favourite shop) in the fridge when the phone had rung.

_“Are you really? You sound so stressed!”_

“No, Mummy, everything is fine. He's… done some gardening.”

_“Oh, how nice!”_

And it was. He hadn't even recognised his plain garden anymore. Flowers had been everywhere, in every shape and every colour. And a rather messed up Sherlock had greeted him with a big smile when he had got home, definitely pleased with a hard day's work, and rightfully so.

“It looks fantastic. He really has a talent for that.” Perhaps that could be an option! Sherlock could do some training he probably didn’t need and get a certificate and become a gardener! Working with shovels and spades and knives and saws, dealing with annoying _people_ … All at once the idea didn’t seem to be so good anymore… Better to limit his efforts to Mycroft's lonely little garden…

He spoke a bit longer with his mother until Sherlock came downstairs, freshly showered, with glistening wet hair and flushed cheeks from a day outside, looking seriously relaxed and happy and devastatingly beautiful in nothing else but a barely closed dressing gown.

Mycroft could hardly talk anymore as his mouth had gone completely dry at the sight, and of course Sherlock didn’t miss it and gave him a look that was more than a bit wanton, and he might have even wiggled his hips before sitting down in a chair, crossing his legs. Mycroft closed his eyes while his cheeks were flushing in embarrassment, and stammered into the phone until his mother had mercy and ended their conversation. Which meant now he had to face and talk to his brother…

They both stared at each other for a long moment, Mycroft with increasingly hot cheeks, and then Sherlock asked how _his_ day had been.

“Oh, good, thank you.”

“Were you very busy?”

“Um, yes. I always am, actually.”

“I see! Oh, would you like a drink?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Yes, please.” He definitely needed one. He wondered if he was about to turn into an alcoholic soon by all the reasons to get drunk.

Sherlock got up at once with a big smile on his face. “Scotch?”

“Yes, if you'd be so kind.”

“No ice of course.”

How did he know that? “Right.”

“In a second!” Sherlock hurried to the bar and this time there was no question – he _was_ wiggling his hips in a way that made Mycroft get totally dizzy – and his trousers a lot tighter around the crotch, which made him grab a sofa pillow and casually put it onto his lap.

This was madness! He desired Sherlock a million times more than he had ever wanted anyone else. And he'd had a few very handsome partners, each only for a very short time _(one night)_ as he was really not that good with people. But this was not an option here! He couldn’t simply have casual sex with Sherlock, and boy he knew Sherlock wanted it, too, for whatever reason, probably just to manipulate him and drive him crazy and have the house for himself!

Only that he knew this was rather stupid – Sherlock was rich enough to buy ten houses like his one, and Uncle Rudy's former domicile was far from being modern and elegant. It was big and the rooms were generous, yes, but it was no reason for Sherlock to pretend wanting him.

But they couldn’t just have sex and then say, 'that was spectacular/interesting/a disaster but now let's go on with each other as brothers'. That wouldn’t work! And Sherlock was not the kind for relationships either, was he, and neither was Mycroft, and why was he even thinking about that?

“Here you go!” Sherlock presented the pretty full glass with pride, and Mycroft took it with a shivering hand, seeing Sherlock shooting a knowing glance and a smirk at the sodding pillow. He quickly put it away as his erection had thankfully mostly wilted in the meantime.

“Thank you. What about you?”

“Oh, I don't drink. I had a little drug problem in prison.”

Mycroft's heart clenched, and he was feeling as if he had received a punch in the gut. “How… did you get them?” This prison was a fortress!

But Sherlock just laughed. “Don't you know prisons are the best places for getting your hands on every drug you… desire?”

Mycroft winced at the last word, having been spoken in a very hoarse tone. “Yes,” he mumbled and sipped at his stiff drink. “Just thought… It's in the middle of the sea and…”

“Believe me, you could get anything there. But I exaggerated it a bit and had to go to rehab, so to speak. I had to do it in my cell of course. Nasty… It was so lonely there, all these years,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes looking seriously sad all at once. “But now I'll never be lonely again, will I?” His gaze bored into Mycroft's, and he shuddered at the disturbing beauty of these forceful blue-green eyes.

But there was nothing else to say but, “Of course not. You will never be lonely again.”

And Sherlock beamed at him. “You're the best big brother in the world. And the handsomest.” His voice was purring at the last words.

“Um. Thank you. Ditto. About, handsome, you know.” Oh God… Could he be any more pathetic?

Sherlock's smile got even wider. “Oh, you're cute. And pretty. Have I mentioned pretty?”

Mycroft felt like fainting. “The garden looks wonderful,” he clumsily changed the subject.

“Oh, thank you! So glad you like it! I will plant some more of course but it's nice for a start, isn’t it?”

“Very. I can't thank you enough for putting so much effort into it.”

“Oh, you can. Thank me sufficiently.”

Mycroft swallowed.

Sherlock grinned. “Feed me! Tomorrow I will try to cook but I saw you brought something for dinner?”

Sherlock really wanted to cook… Well, probably he would be equally perfect at it as he was at gardening so why not… “Yes, I've got us some really good sandwiches. I hope you'll like them.”

“Oh, if _you_ chose them, I will _love_ them!”

It was impossible to say if Sherlock was just mocking him or seriously trying to connect with him on a much more intimate basis. And Mycroft caught himself hoping for the latter even though he should have prayed for the first alternative… “I've put it in the fridge; I'll get it.”

“Nah, _I_ will! My hard-working brother needs his rest!” Sherlock bent over and brushed a kiss onto his cheek and then disappeared to gather the sandwiches.

Mycroft sat in his chair with his mouth open and gingerly touched the spot Sherlock's luscious lips had kissed.

He was totally and utterly fucked.

*****

This time Sherlock's moans and shouting his name from the next room were even louder and started even earlier.

Mycroft had already waited for it; whom did he want to fool. And as soon as Sherlock's sinful symphony started, he used the lube, his right hand found his sticky cock, the left one grabbed his balls, and off he went.

They had had a very nice time during dinner with Sherlock questioning him about his day and obviously being really interested in his rather boring work. It was mostly routine if there wasn’t any national emergency. Mycroft's job was, apart from attending mostly tedious meetings, to basically read everything that could be remotely important for the country and especially the government and the Royals, and to draw conclusions and memorise everything and see connections anyone else would have failed to see. It sounded like an impossible task but Mycroft had a brain like a computer with endless capacities.

He had not mentioned that he had struggled a bit at performing his tasks today but he was quite sure Sherlock knew that anyway.

He couldn’t hide anything from his brother; this was the bottom line. Sherlock was at least as smart as he was even though he would have rather not been able to do Mycroft's job as it would bore him to death as Mycroft was sure and he would certainly not have the patience to deal with the people Mycroft often enough had to keep up with (and Sherlock would have probably just killed them…). But it had been nice to see him hanging at his lips and asking very intelligent questions that proved he was really listening.

But Mycroft was smart too after all. He knew the possibility that Sherlock was just manipulating him into thinking he was interested was still quite big, no matter how convincing his loud self-pleasuring used to sound. But what would his brother gain from it? He already had Mycroft's full attention as his throbbing cock proved all too well. He was living with him and… God, when would he succumb to Sherlock's strange advances? When would he storm into his room and be all over his little brother?

It just couldn’t happen but he feared eventually it would, and it would be horrible (perhaps apart from the physical side). Not only because they were brothers. Sherlock was… God, he was dangerous! And Mycroft would be damned if this didn’t only increase his desire for him. Sherlock was fascinating. Luring. Deadly. This could never end well.

He had to resist!

_“Mycroft! Fuck me hard!”_

And Mycroft spilled over his hand again and bit his lip bloody so he wouldn’t cry out as well, fleetingly thinking, _'Yeah, resisting him will be so easy, huh?'_ and he was well aware that Sherlock was playing a game with him, a wanton, hazardous game that had to end in a certain way, and Mycroft – ice cold, feared and important Mycroft Holmes – knew that his brother was much better at playing it than he was and that Sherlock knew the outcome of it.

There were only two possibilities, he figured. Sherlock either really wanted his love or he wanted him dead. Or actually both, in whichever order…

And then he froze. Tomorrow Mrs Hudson would come. She knew his brother was living with him now (and he had asked her to not tell anyone as he didn’t want anyone besides her and his parents to know) but was that really in the least a good idea? He should fire her and do the cleaning himself. But then he sighed. He couldn’t do that to her. She was too old to find another job and he really didn’t want to do it himself after a long day at work or at his precious spare time at the weekends. And he could really not imagine Sherlock scrubbing the floors…

He could only hope they would get along… Mrs Hudson was a very nice person but she always said what she thought…

He tensed, still panting, when he heard a quiet knock at the wall that separated his room from Sherlock's, and a deep voice rumbled, _“Good night, brother mine.”_

It took him ages to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, apologies again for making Sherlock plant flowers in January. Well... It was a very warm January that cried for that ;)
> 
> And Mrs Hudson will not appear in this story. I hope to fit her into the next part. As I avoided to write from Sherlock's POV, I couldn't actually write the scene between them.


	6. Doubts And Desires

“Are you actually listening to me, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft's head snapped up. “I am, Lady Smallwood,” he assured his colleague, head of the MI6.

She was many years older than him, unhappily married and feared by everybody who knew her. Apart from Mycroft, who was only afraid of his own little brother, and if this wasn’t ironic… “Then what do you think of this candidate?”

“He has to be thoroughly checked. There are some discrepancies in what he gave away about his past.” It did happen that Mycroft was asked for matters of other countries' affairs, and an election in an Asian country had drawn the attention of the British Secret Service.

Mycroft had no official title at all. The people who were informed about his existence just knew he was very important but his position didn’t have any name, and he knew (and didn’t mind at all) that behind his back, they called him the _Iceman_. He was a shadow in the shadows, and that's what he wanted to be. And he pondered for a moment about the fact that he was a more or less nameless chimera in the government and his brother had been a nameless prisoner going by a four-digit number almost all his life…

The lady nodded after he had explained to her what he had noticed. “I agree. I will have two agents on it. Is everything all right with you? You seem so absent minded.”

“I'm fine,” he assured her in his usual calm voice and with a face that gave nothing away. She was smart but she wasn’t _Sherlock_ … She could still be deceived or at least placated.

“If you say so.” She clearly didn’t believe him, damn. Probably she knew him a bit too well after the several years they had been working together. “You know you can come to me, with whatever problem might occur.”

Mycroft tensed. Oh no. He could sense some non-professional interest here. In fact he had noticed it a few times before and had always reacted as if he didn’t understand a word. “Thank you,” he settled for in a completely indifferent tone.

She gave him a look of disappointment but she was too experienced and too much dependent on his work efforts to say anything more. Instead she left him alone and he leaned back in his office chair.

He had called his land line and got Mrs Hudson, who had sounded thoroughly happy and had assured him that she and Sherlock were getting along just fine. That was deeply unsettling in itself. Sherlock just wasn’t the kind of man who got along with anybody _just fine_. The born manipulator, that's what he was. She had even said she had given his brother some cooking advice, and he had gone out to buy groceries, using a cab, and somehow this image of Sherlock asking for a bit of cheese or meat or whatever made him feel very uncomfortable even though Sherlock had obviously managed to get the plants and flowers without a problem. His brother was just so inexperienced in the tasks of a 'normal' life.

If he just hadn’t been so busy at work (and yes, so eager to escape his house), he would have taken at least a few days off to show everything to Sherlock. Well, not _everything_ …

And then he remembered that there were a few things he had promised Sherlock, and he told Anthea to come to him and asked her to get the stuff. It wasn’t exactly her job but she immediately agreed on it so his brother would be able to use the Tube regularly and have a mobile phone to reach him wherever he went. He didn’t tell her any details about who would receive the items of course and when she had left, he wondered if she thought she had got them for his love interest, which made him burst into hysterical giggles.

He forced himself to concentrate on his work as the last thing he needed was to overlook something because he kept on thinking of his brother, who had brought enough problems with him. He would work thoroughly and then head home to face the man who had turned his life upside down. And he hoped he would be strong enough to deal with whatever Sherlock had in mind for him…

*****

“That smells very good.” And it did. When had he last been welcomed by delicious cooking odours when he came home? Never? Yeah…

Sherlock smiled modestly. “Ah, just my first attempt at cooking. Pasta with shrimps. Mrs Hudson gave me the recipe. She's great!”

Mycroft, who had stored his umbrella and his coat, watched him closely. “So you two got along well?”

“Oh, splendidly! She's a lovely old girl!” Sherlock beamed at him. “I helped her a bit with cleaning; I did bring some dirt into the house after working in the garden.”

Mycroft walked over to the patio door and even in the fading light he could see that the garden was an explosion of colours. “This is awesome. You really did this all alone in two days?”

“Well, yes. I don't have friends, you know. I just have you.” Suddenly Sherlock was standing very close to him, close enough so Mycroft could feel his warm breath on his neck.

He shuddered, but not because it would have been unpleasant. Quite the opposite actually… But that was just Sherlock playing with him again – he just couldn’t forget that! He had to stay strong!

“I've brought you something,” he announced, turning around while making a step away from his brother.

“Oh, presents?” Sherlock smiled like a little child at Christmas. His expression was totally innocent.

Neither of them had mentioned his masturbation session in the morning. This time Sherlock hadn't even teased him with asking whether he had disturbed him.

Perhaps that was all that would ever happen? Sherlock getting off with moaning his name but never trying to actually seduce him?

And that thought should be a – strange enough – relief but in fact it just gave him a sting of disappointment, as improbable as it was anyway…

He hastened to provide Sherlock with the ticket that allowed him to use all Tube lines in London for a year, and the black mobile phone in which he had already saved his number. “I guess… if it's not an emergency, it's better if you text me,” he said. “I'm in meetings rather often and then my calls are forwarded to my PA and…”

“…she doesn’t know I'm living with you.”

“Nobody does, except for Mrs Hudson. And our parents, obviously. It's better if nobody else knows. I mean… I'm not… someone dark elements know about but you can never be sure. And you would be a pressure point.”

“Would I?” Sherlock tilted his head in this innocent, disturbing way. “Because I mean so much to you?”  Now he definitely sounded mocking…

Mycroft answered him seriously. “Because you're family. And family is always a weak spot.” His parents lived far away from him. He only saw them twice or three times a year, and they even had a different surname as he was using his mother's maiden name. His phone line was perfectly secure. He had no pressure points, no mistress, no lover, no gambling problem and he was completely incorruptible.

Why had he even agreed to let Sherlock live with him? What if someone did find out and used it against him? Why hadn't he told Mrs Hudson Sherlock was a distant relative, or a friend? He knew the answer – the shock and the joy about his little brother still being alive had messed with his brain, had disturbed his usually flawless thought process. And Sherlock's dangerous presence had overwhelmed him and so he had done something unforgivably stupid, and he hadn't even realised until now because Sherlock's immense sex appeal had only disturbed him further.

In any way Sherlock couldn’t stay! He had to find another place for him! They could harm him and… well he would probably _kill_ them and…

“You're so good to me, brother mine,” Sherlock purred in this moment, his face suddenly very close to Mycroft's ear. “It means so much to me that I can live with you and even reach you anytime. Thank you so much!” And he pressed a kiss onto the corner of Mycroft's mouth, and he gasped, no, _moaned_ at the touch, and his lips twitched when Sherlock gave him another kiss on the other side of his mouth and then pulled back just a bit, looking into his eyes through his impossibly long lashes, giving the term 'bedroom eyes' a totally different meaning.

He stared at Sherlock like a deer in the headlights, his brother's beautiful face just a few centimetres away from his own. He could smell him, and it was a delicious scent of tea and earth and sweetness and pasta sauce, and Mycroft, feared by almost everybody who ever met him, was feeling as if he was under the influence of a drug or hypnosis, and he bent over to kiss him on the lips when Sherlock stepped back.

“So! Let's have dinner, shall we?” He beamed at Mycroft, and he nodded, his brain spinning, his legs feeling like jelly, his cock hard and hot in his pants.

When his ability to think set in again, he knew he was beaten. He wouldn’t send him away. How could he let him down? Sherlock couldn’t stay on his own. And he would do anything to protect him.

And God – he didn’t _want_ him to leave him again, no matter if he would pay for it with his reputation, his safety and his sanity… or his life…

*****

They had dinner (which was as delicious as expected) and spoke about their respective days, and Mycroft found himself hanging at Sherlock's lips, and whenever Sherlock reached out to pat his hand or touch his arm to stress something he had said, his heart beat faster and the wish to just take him and kiss him got stronger.

Sherlock did nothing inappropriate and behaved just like a completely normal young man, seemingly oblivious to Mycroft's desire. And in this night there was no sound from his room apart from quiet music when Sherlock was playing the violin, and Mycroft listened and longed and felt as if Sherlock was playing on _his_ strings, and it took him even longer to find sleep after the sounds of the music had vanished, because he knew very well this was just another move of his brother's merciless game.


	7. Texting And Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Innocent conversation during the dinner at Angelo's :)

_Hello! How is your day, brother? S_

Mycroft looked at the display and swallowed. Sherlock's first text to him. Of course he had figured out quickly how the phone worked. He seemed to be able to grasp everything on the first try. His intelligence was limitless. As limitless as his recklessness obviously was…

Mycroft had been concentrated on a report but he knew he wouldn’t get back to that so quickly.

_Busy but manageable. How are you? M_

_Oh, very good! I did some painting. S_

Mycroft swallowed. Would he recognise his house when he came home?

_Oh, that sounds nice. Which colour? M_

Black, probably… Sherlock only wore black clothes…

 _I did not paint your_ walls _, brother dear. I meant I painted a picture. S_

_Ah, that sounds good! What is the subject? M_

_You will see… I did have to guess some parts but I think I have done well. I will put it onto the wall of my room when it's dry. S_

His fingers reached for his mug and he drank some tea to placate his suddenly dry throat. He had a strong suspicion what the painting would show…

_I am sure I will like it. M_

And he was certain it would be completely accurate, showing enormous talent and would probably make every gallery owner wet their pants in delight. And in embarrassment at the subject…

_So am I. Do you need anything? I will take the Tube downtown now. S_

After all Mycroft had got him the ticket so of course Sherlock wouldn’t stay at home anymore now. But still it terrified him to know him around people who were oblivious to what he was capable of. He wondered what would happen if some yob thought it was funny to provoke him.

_I thought we could go out for dinner so just buy what you think we might need for tomorrow. M_

It had been a completely spontaneous idea and perhaps he was going mad. Why would he want to take his brother to a restaurant? But he just couldn’t sit with him alone again tonight, and there was a very nice Italian restaurant not too far from his house where he always felt welcome and comfortable even though of course he never told anyone anything about himself there.

_Oh, that sounds nice! Looking forward to it! You are spoiling me! S_

Was he? Nah. His brother actually never asked for anything apart from being allowed to turn his boring garden into an oasis. All at once he felt an overwhelming love for the baby brother he had thought he had lost so many years ago. He wanted Sherlock to be happy.

Was he bothered by nightmares? He had not heard any evidence for it; in fact Sherlock seemed to sleep like a baby. Did he even ever think of the people he had killed? It was almost impossible to imagine he had really done that, Mycroft realised. Of course Sherlock seemed weird and dangerous but not in such a way. He rather appeared like a misunderstood young man who only wanted love and didn’t know how to get it.

He shook his head. These thoughts were disturbing. Almost as if Sherlock had brainwashed him. Sherlock _had_ done these things. He was just able to control himself now. The question was: for how long? And what could he do to keep him in line?

_I like to do nice things for you. Whatever you need, Sherlock, just let me know. M_

He stared at this text after firing it off without even thinking about it. Perhaps he was just slowly getting mad. Because these words sounded more than dubious…

He felt strangely disappointed when Sherlock didn’t answer in an outright suggestive way until he read the last sentence.

_I will keep that in mind, brother dear. I need to leave now and I shall leave you to your duties. I can't wait to see you tonight. S_

Mycroft needed several minutes to be able to return to his work.

*****

“You're really serious about not wanting to be seen with me…” Sherlock put his coat collar up.

Mycroft had just checked if anyone was around when they had left the bush-lined pathway that led from his house. Nobody had been there. His house was about a kilometre away from any neighbour. Not even his colleagues knew where he lived, apart from Anthea and his driver of course. He liked to keep all personal information hush-hush. One could never be secure enough...

“I just want to be safe. And keep you safe.”

“That’s so sweet, Mycie!”

 _Mycie_ … Where did this name come from? Sherlock had never called him 'Mycie'!

“You mind?” Sherlock smiled at him. “I think the name fits.”

Mycroft couldn’t imagine that at all but he smiled back. “Suit yourself.”

“So… Who am I? If anyone asks in the restaurant? I figure you go there often.”

“They won't ask. And if they do…”

“I'm your boyfriend!” Sherlock beamed at him and patted his arm, and Mycroft shuddered.

“Yes, well…”

“So, you really liked the painting, huh?”

Mycroft blushed at the memory. It had been a very natural image of himself. Naked. Aroused. Sitting wantonly on the couch and showing off his… Not that this would have surprised him… Still he had been shocked and then wondered why. This was _Sherlock_ … “I do. It's… astonishing. But you shouldn’t show it to Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, of course not. I'm taking care of my rooms myself; I've told her already. And when she comes, I'll store it in my wardrobe, just in case. Nobody should see it except for me! And you, of course. I don't think I'd appreciate if anyone saw you like this.”

Mycroft stayed silent at that confession. He wouldn’t have known what to say to it if his life depended on it…

They were walking fast through the slightly chilly air. They could have taken a cab but Mycroft liked the exercise after sitting in his office all day.

He winced when Sherlock linked arms with him but he didn’t free himself.

It just felt too good to be close to him.

*****

“Oh, hello, my friend! I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been?”

Mycroft smiled a little cautiously at the chubby man with the black curls. Angelo was his name as well as the restaurant's. And Mycroft had never told him his name. “Good,” he said. “I trust so have you?”

“Excellent!” Angelo seemed to be over the moon to see him again and showed him to the table in the dark corner he always used when he went there, which he did very infrequently. When the table was occupied, he used to retreat without even entering the small restaurant. He wouldn’t have done it today.

“And you've brought nice company! Great! Candles for your table!” The Italian just seemed to take it for granted that Sherlock was a romantic interest, and Mycroft blushed.

He had never in his life altogether blushed as much as these past days…

But Sherlock grinned widely. “Candles would be wonderful!” he said in a honeyed voice.

“At once!” Angelo just waited for Sherlock's coat (Mycroft always kept his within reach) to hang it up and then he disappeared.

“He's cute,” Sherlock said while sitting down and grabbing for the menu in the small iron holder in the middle of the wooden table.

“He only behaves like this when I come in,” Mycroft mumbled. “He brings excellent food and then leaves me alone until it's time to pay the bill.” He always paid cash of course. No credit cards…

“I like it here! Well, I like to be everywhere where you are.” Sherlock said this everything but casual sentence in a completely casual tone.

Mycroft's throat got dry. “How was your shopping tour?” he asked then, not bothering to have a look at the menu himself. He always took _Pizza Napoli_. For all his posh upbringing, he had a rather plain taste for food, if not for wine and whiskey.

“Fine. Got everything I need for tomorrow's lunch and dinner.”

“You cook lunch for yourself?”

Sherlock answered him when Angelo had brought the candles and taken their order with a wide smile and a 'bene, bene' (and he seemed delighted to be allowed to bring _Spaghetti Vongole_ and a Coca Cola for Sherlock and the pizza and wine for Mycroft). “Just something small. Gardening makes hungry!” Sherlock beamed at him and Mycroft could have stared at his smile forever. “But when I came back, I got really pissed off,” Sherlock added darkly, his eyes narrowing within a second, his sinful lips turning into a scary frown.

Mycroft was alarmed. “Why?”

“Someone walked around with a young and really cute dog, and he viciously pulled at the leash when it tried to sniffle somewhere. That's what dogs do! He screamed at him and I'm sure he would have hit him if I hadn't told him to be nicer.”

Mycroft had no idea who the guy could have been. He did know the names and backgrounds of the rich and respectable people who lived in the few houses around his own even though he never met those people. They all valued their privacy – perhaps not quite as much as he did though. He had no idea which of them owned a dog. Of course he could have just been a visitor or just anyone walking around there, too. With some effort he would certainly be able to find out if necessary. “What did he say?”

“He said I should fuck off. Thank you!” Sherlock gave Angelo a wide smile and took the glass from his hand.

Mycroft grabbed the wine with shivering fingers. “And… then?”

Sherlock shrugged and stared into the flame of the candle in front of him. “I looked at him and he winced and went off. Being a lot more patient with the dog,” he added smugly.

“How…” Mycroft broke off. What was the point? He could very well imagine the face Sherlock had made and probably the man had peed into his pants.

Sherlock just tilted his head and played innocent. When Mycroft didn’t finish his question, he took a sip of his Coca Cola. “The dog was such a nice, pretty thing,” he said pensively.

Mycroft was glad their food didn’t take long to be brought, and it tasted fine as usual, but he had a feeling that this was not the end of this story. He somehow couldn’t imagine Sherlock would let anyone get away with being brutal to a puppy and telling him to 'fuck off'. There had been something in his eyes when he had repeated these words that had looked decidedly unsettling. And Sherlock had obviously taken a strong liking to the pet that certainly deserved a better owner…

But he didn’t tell Sherlock to keep away from the guy. He didn’t ask if he had followed him to find out where he lived. He was simply too much of a realist to do that. If he was wrong and Sherlock didn’t want to harm the man, he would insult his brother and possibly destroy the closeness they were growing into, game or not, and he couldn’t have that, and if he was right, well, he was smart enough to know that he would not be able to talk him out of it. He just hoped that if Sherlock did choose to take the man out, he wouldn’t get caught but really – given Sherlock's intelligence, probably nobody would ever find out.

Sherlock had killed people. He knew it and he, who sometimes had had the power over someone's life or death in an indirect but nonetheless fatal way, seemed to mind it less and less. All he was really concerned about was Sherlock's safety. And frankly – the man didn’t sound like a very nice man.

He settled for enjoying their dinner together, and with a Sherlock so charming and eloquent and smiling at him sweetly and offering him to taste from his meal, it really was a joy. And when Sherlock casually asked if he thought he could imagine getting a dog to live with them and then licked off his spoon in a wanton way and rolled his eyes in pleasure at the tiramisu he had ordered for dessert, he only closed his eyes for a brief moment and then, thinking of how much Sherlock had loved Redbeard a long time ago, he said that this was a really good idea, which made his brother give him one of those breath-taking smiles.

When they said 'goodnight', Sherlock briefly embraced him, thanked him for the wonderful evening and kissed him on the ear, and Mycroft watched the door through which he had disappeared with a hammering heart and knowing that Sherlock, dark, beautiful, irresistible Sherlock, had taken over his life and would never let him go again.

*****

In the night Sherlock beat off again, and Mycroft imagined how he was looking at the painting while he was doing so (and damn Sherlock had even got the size of his erection right…) and it turned him on massively, and this time he couldn’t suppress a cry when he came, and afterwards he walked over to the wall between his and Sherlock's room and put his head against it, and he was sure his brother was standing at the other side, doing the same, even though this time he didn’t knock and didn’t say his name. Mycroft could feel he was there.


	8. Puppy Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from Paul Anka's innocent love song :)

“He's cute, isn’t he?”

Mycroft looked down on the light-brown puppy with the eyes that looked as if he wore makeup. He was currently trying to crawl up his leg. “He is,” he said.

He didn’t ask if it was the dog Sherlock had told him about the evening before. He knew it was.

During the day, he had glanced at police files and found nothing from his area. No murder, no robbery-went-wrong. Calm as usual. But then he had rubbed his eyes, nodding to himself, and looked at another source. And yes. A man of fifty-two had died of a natural cause in his house; the doctor assumed a heart attack to be precise – no autopsy would be done as the man had a history for cardiac problems. No word about a dog of course. But he had just known.

“I went to the shelter to look around,” Sherlock explained, taking the dog into his arms. “I'd have wanted to take them all.”

Had they reminded him of himself? Locked up in a prison, all alone? Mycroft was watching him closely while he was talking.

“And then I saw this little fellow. His name is Archie. Not very Holmesish, is it?”

Mycroft gently stroked over the soft head and the dog licked his hand enthusiastically. “You can give him any name you want. He'll get used to it.” He assumed the dog was about seven or eight months old only.

“We must think of something nice together!” Sherlock beamed at him.

Mycroft just had to smile back but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were more of a completely crazy family now. Big brother and little brother in their nearly-and-probably-soon-fully incestuous arrangement, added to it now their canine child, the dog of a man Sherlock had killed in a way that nobody would ever know it even was murder. Had he just scared him to death? He was sure Sherlock was capable of that. Or perhaps Mycroft was just going insane and this dog had nothing to do with the incident of the day before. He could have asked Sherlock. He could have investigated if the dead man had had a dog. He wouldn’t though. He didn’t want to confirm it.

“He only ended up in the shelter today,” Sherlock said casually, and Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, knowing Sherlock was testing him. This was, indirectly, the confirmation he had not longed for. But Sherlock wanted to know. He wanted to know for sure if Mycroft was on his side or not.

“He was very lucky you got him out again at once,” he calmly said, and Sherlock smiled at him in a way that showed him he had passed the test.

“Yes. He really was. Got all he needs already. Dog basket, leash, bowls, plenty of toys and lots of food of course... Just the best for him! Hey, why don't we call him 'Onni'? That's Finnish for luck.”

“A really weird name. Onni Holmes. Fits. And two-syllables-names are easier to call.” He was sure this dog, obviously a spaniel-fox-terrier-mix, would never get angrily yelled at or being punished again. A true part of their weird little family.

Sherlock smiled and there was genuine affection in his eyes. “Onni Holmes it is. Thank you, Mycie.”

Mycroft understood him very well. _'Thank you for letting me have a dog.' 'Thank you for pretending you don't know where it comes from.' 'Thank you for being on my side even though I'm a very dangerous man.'_

They looked each other in the eyes for a long moment. Then Mycroft nodded. “If it makes you happy, I'm happy too.”

The next moment he had an armful of Sherlock and the little dog that immediately licked his throat, and for a very brief moment, Sherlock actually kissed him fully on the mouth for the first time and Mycroft returned the pressure of these impossibly plush lips without any more hesitation before they broke apart to stare into each other's eyes for a minute that seemed like an eternity. They both knew where this was leading to.

Being doomed had certainly never felt so good.

*****

Mycroft woke up when Sherlock returned late in the night. He had heard him going out about an hour before, whispering to the dog, and had dozed off again, sure his brother was out for nothing but a necessary walk with the little pet.

He could have stayed, lying on his bed, but instead he got up and opened his door.

Sherlock looked surprised but then he smiled. “Sorry to wake you, brother dear. Onni had to go outside.”

“Sure. The pleasures of having a dog.” Mycroft smiled back. Onni wagged his tail enthusiastically, yapping quietly, fixating him with his lively eyes.

“I adore him. He reminds me of Redbeard.”

The beautiful Irish setter of their childhood, a brave, faithful dog, Sherlock's only real friend. The only one he'd ever had as Mycroft was sure. And now he had a new one. And he had Mycroft. “He's certainly as nice as he was.”

The brothers looked at each other in the dim light that came from Mycroft's room; Sherlock had not made light in the hallway. Finally Sherlock broke the eye contact to free the dog from the leash. He immediately ran to Mycroft, and he bent down to tickle his head until Onni turned to run downstairs where Sherlock had placed his bowls with water and food as well as his comfortable dog basket.

Mycroft straightened his back again and saw Sherlock smiling at him, but his eyes looked serious and determined.

It wasn’t any kind of conscious decision. Mycroft simply stepped forward and a microsecond later, Sherlock did the same, and then their mouths crashed together in a kiss Mycroft knew he would never forget. There was no finesse; Mycroft could hardly remember when he had last kissed a man, and obviously Sherlock had never done it before but after just a few moments they had found their rhythm, their lips and tongues started exploring each other, Mycroft was holding his brother in a firm grip and the hard embrace of Sherlock's arms around his waist almost took his breath away.

Their erections grinded against each other through Sherlock's jog pants and Mycroft's silky pyjamas, and Mycroft knew there was no way back and there had never been a chance to not end up like this in the first place - entangled with his own little brother, who had spent almost all his life in a facility for criminal children and young adults, who was a sociopath with depths he hadn't even seen a fraction of, a stone-cold murderer who had played a torturous game with him for days and rescued an abused dog by killing its owner, who was all needy and pliant in his arms now and sighing into his mouth like an innocent boy in love, and to hell with all fears and problems and consequences.

*****

It was like nothing Mycroft had ever experienced.

He had never paid much attention to his sexual desires. He had taken care of them mostly on his own when they had occurred, infrequently enough due to his devotion to his work. Stress of such dimensions didn’t have a good influence on one's libido but of course he hadn't missed it as it had simply been an inconvenience.

The few men he had had sex with when he had been younger, and of which he could hardly remember any details (which said a lot considering the capacities of his brain) had been boring, predictable lovers with normal desires and a rather intimidated and devoted behaviour towards him. He had always been cool and unapproachable, especially when he had shared intimate moments with the strangers they all had been. Eventually he had given it up completely, considering the rather dull experiences not worth all the fuss and effort.

This… This was something completely different and it didn’t even really seem real.

They ended up on Mycroft's waterbed. Clothes seemed to disappear by themselves. Mouths crashed together in need and something that was not even passion anymore. The build-up of the past days cumulated in raw, frantic, possessive clashing. Sherlock had in all probability no experience whatsoever and yet he wasn't careful or shy for even a moment. He was all over him with lips and teeth and fingers; they rolled about the bed, stopping when one was on top of the other one, looking down, pinning the other one on the bed, kissing increasingly sore lips, and starting all over again. It was not quite a fight for dominance as they both succumbed to one another willingly, and there was no violence, just rough and raw desire.

More than once Mycroft's impossibly hard prick was bent painfully, and he felt Sherlock wince occasionally when the same happened to him.

They both needed more.

Mycroft was sure he would find himself on his front eventually, being pinned on the bed by Sherlock's weight, his brother's heavy, long cock pushing inside of him, and he, who had never let anyone do this, actually longed for it even though he couldn’t put it in words.

But in the end it was Sherlock who hissed, “Fuck me, brother,” and Mycroft didn’t even hesitate for a second.

He grabbed the lube, fleetingly thinking that he had to buy a new bottle, and dropped it when he turned back to Sherlock, who was on all fours, presenting his backside to him, and it was a view he would remember until his very last breath. He had never seen such a bottom before. It was pure plush and creamy perfection, the tiny pink hole between the luscious globes seeming to cry for being entered.

Any capability of a clear thought left him when he instead of applying lube and fingering Sherlock open plunged his face into the luring crack, something he had never even considered doing with someone, making Sherlock gasp in delighted surprise, and he licked and lapped at salty musk until the lack of oxygen almost made him collapse, and then he still wanted to go on, but Sherlock's whimpering noises told him he should better get on with what his brother had asked him to do. So he coated his right forefinger with sticky fluid and eased him into the already slightly relaxed hole, and he started widening his brother for his thick cock carefully – for about a minute before he was thrown onto the bed and stared up to Sherlock with wide eyes.

“That's enough.” And with this no-nonsense statement Sherlock straddled him and guided himself onto his large member, taking him in without any regard for pain and discomfort, starting to ride him relentlessly within less than a minute, and it catapulted Mycroft's arousal through the ceiling, and when he grabbed Sherlock's bobbing cock to roughly stroke it and his brother cursed and rolled his eyes so only the white was visible anymore he wondered why he had ever bothered suppressing his desire for him and why they had waited this long to get together.

“Have you done that before?” he couldn’t help but asking, needing to be sure.

Sherlock smiled down on him, keeping still for a moment, Mycroft's cock buried in him to the hilt. “With whom? The crazy lunatics in Sherrinford? The nasty guards? Nah, brother. You're the first. And you'll be the last.” And with this breathtaking statement he resumed riding Mycroft, hard and mercilessly, making the older man's hands fly up to his hips and grab him firmly.

He would have loved to go on doing this until the rest of his life and he knew whatever was about to happen from now on, he would never regret this night.


	9. The Struggles Of The Aftermath

Mycroft always woke up a few minutes before his alarm went off. Always. He seemed to have an impeccable inner clock.

Not this morning. This morning he woke up from two soft lips kissing up and down on his neck.

He opened his eyes with his heart hammering, realising/remembering several facts at once.

  1. They had just fallen asleep after their orgasms, without cleaning up or talking, Sherlock just collapsing onto him.
  2. Sherlock had stayed with him overnight.
  3. Mycroft had slept like a baby with no worries in the world after breaking the last real taboo of their liberal society as well as the incest laws.
  4. Sherlock was determined to have sex with him again. Now. Ten minutes before Mycroft would have had to get up for work.
  5. Mycroft wanted it so badly.
  6. Yet he couldn’t. He needed time to process what had happened. And he would meet the Prime Minister in an hour.
  7. He felt deeply uncomfortable with his body being sweaty and traces of Sherlock's release still on his furry chest. And he had morning breath, and so had Sherlock, obviously.



“Sherlock…” He grabbed his brother's shoulder, stroking it roughly. “I have to get up and go to work.

“No.” Sherlock bit into his right nipple, and Mycroft hissed at the painful but arousing sensation.

His entire body was tingling with want. “I do though. I'll try to be back this evening very early.”

“Of course you will. But that won't get you off the hook now.” Sherlock winked at him.

Mycroft would have loved to succumb to his brother's ministrations but it was just not possible. “Stop it, Sherlock. I'm serious.”

Sherlock chuckled and wrapped his hand around Mycroft's throbbing cock, the old traitor. “How cute. No. You're my prisoner. I'll knock you out if you try to get out of the bed.”

Mycroft froze and at last he remembered who his newfound sex partner actually was. Not just his own brother. A sociopath who didn’t give a damn about what other people might want. A sociopath who had bloody killed someone the day before… He slumped into the pillows, his heart racing, and Sherlock rolled onto his side.

“Just kidding, Mycie. I need to take the dog out. He probably peed in the kitchen already. We must give him access to the garden all the time.”

Mycroft's head was spinning. He stared at Sherlock, who was smiling fondly at him. What a cruel game had this just been? Had he really thought he was able to keep up with this man?

“Ah, don't look at me like that. What are you, a goldfish?”

“I have no idea what _you_ are,” Mycroft burst out, regretting it a moment later. But it was true, wasn’t it? They had been so intimate this night. They had spent many hours together already and still he couldn’t say in the least how and who Sherlock really was. It all seemed to be incompatible. The flower-lover, the dog-rescuer, the ice-cold sociopath, the insane killer who had bitten someone's throat. But then – Sherlock had always been like this, even as a child. Unable to really have emotions but still caring deeply for Redbeard. So smart but unable to understand his own feelings. So many depths, so many inconsistencies. Most people had, of course, their share of illogical treats. But Sherlock had to be the epitome of it.

Sherlock stared into his eyes with an unreadable expression. “Hm. Not that easy to say, is it? Your brother; I suppose we can take that for granted. Your lover now, if you think you can manage it, and the man who can still feel your cock up his arse.”

Mycroft blushed and swallowed, unable to turn his gaze away from Sherlock's, and the insane thought shot through his head that if Sherlock ever needed a pseudonym, it should be _Medusa_ … He might have picked _Janus_ but then – Sherlock had so much more than just two faces…

“And I'm the man who is very grateful that his big brother was so generous to let him live with him. If I had had to go to our annoying parents to live in the middle of nowhere, I would have gone mental.”

Mycroft tried not to think, _'Aren't you anyway?'_  In fact he had the strong feeling he was seeing the real, serene Sherlock for the very first time now. “You haven't been outside that often though,” he slowly said. “You haven’t seen much of the city. This house and the garden and the shops you went to, and _'Angelo's'_. You could as well _be_ in a small village. You are, actually.” His area was not much else after all. “And you've hardly met any other people.” _And one of them you've_ killed _…_

“I do not _care_ for any other people.” Sherlock sat up and ruffled up his curls. “I do not _like_ people, I've told you before.” His hand reached out to rub at Mycroft's knee. “And this house and this garden is where I like to be. With my fabulous brother, who fucked me so well last night that I can still feel him up my arse, his wonderful housekeeper, who miraculously accepts me the way I am, and the best dog anyone could wish for, who thinks I'm the king of the world. Perhaps I will explore the city more soon. But for now I'm grateful for the peace of this place. It feels like home and I frankly didn’t expect that when I left Sherrinford. Do you understand?”

Mycroft didn’t answer but pulled Sherlock into his arms, and he held him for several minutes, stroking his hair and his back in a completely non-sexual way, just like he had done when he had been allowed to when Sherlock had been a little boy, and then they kissed with closed mouths and Sherlock shushed him to get ready for work, and Mycroft got up eventually very reluctantly.

*****

The day was like no other day Mycroft had experienced. As soon as he had tumbled out of the car that used to bring him to his office and found his way to this desk and dropped onto his chair, he was feeling like waking up from a fever dream. A forbidden, insane dream he succumbed to, even thinking there would be no regrets.

What had he done? How could he have given in? He remembered how he had been holding Sherlock before getting out of bed – like a brother, not a lover. Wasn’t that a lot more what Sherlock really needed? Affection without any crude desires? Didn't he need him so much more as a brother who knew best and who could guide him into a life that was as normal as possible for him? Hadn't he actually exploited Sherlock's loneliness and inexperience?

He caught several concerned glances from Anthea during the day, but they were not on any terms that allowed her to ask if he needed any help beyond the job.

Lady Smallwood was not quite as discreet. “You look horrible,” she informed him when he had stumbled into the meeting room after Anthea had reminded him that he was supposed to meet her and the PM.

“I'm fine,” he said through gritted teeth, knowing she would never buy that. He was simply too shaken to behave in any way as usual.

“Can I help you?”

“No. Everything is…”

“Is it a matter of… the heart?” she interrupted him in a tone that suggested she was doubtful about him even having one. And until just very recently he would have denied it with utter conviction.

“My heart is perfectly healthy,” he retorted, deliberately misinterpreting her question.

She rolled her eyes like only an experienced woman could. “Fine. I'm sure you will be able to follow this meeting with your full attention then.”

“Of course I will.” And he pulled himself together. He had to.

But he had no idea how he should face Sherlock in the evening, telling him they should return to just be brothers because it couldn’t be in Sherlock's own interest to continue with this forbidden love affair.

*****

When Mycroft opened the door of his house this evening, Sherlock was awaiting him already. And Onni was, too, and tried to climb his legs, yapping enthusiastically. Mycroft had to crouch down and touch him and the first smile of this day pulled at the corners of his mouth when a small warm tongue reached his dimpled and rather stubbly chin.

When he came up with the dog up his arms, Sherlock was scrutinising him and smiled when their eyes met. “I've run you a bath.”

“Oh, that… was very considerate of you.”

“So we don't have to waste any more time when we've eaten.”

“Um…” Mycroft took a deep breath. “Sherlock, perhaps it would be better, you know, if we… If we…”

“No. You're mine. Don't even try to fight it.”

Mycroft stared at him, forgetting to blink. “But…”

“ _You_ want it, _I_ want it. End of the story.”

Had he really thought he would be able to convince Sherlock that it was in his best interest if they stopped their sexual relationship?

And Sherlock was right. Of course he wanted it. “If you're sure…” he mumbled and Sherlock beamed at him.

“I am absolutely sure and tonight you're going to introduce me to cock-sucking.”

Mycroft would have choked on his spit if his mouth hadn't been so dry. His cheeks flushed heftily. “Um… Okay.”

“Great! And now let's get you into the tub before the water is cold. Dinner will be just ready when you're finished.”

A few minutes later Mycroft rested his head against the back of the tub, which was filled with perfectly tempered water and deliciously smelling bubbles and he wondered why he had even tried to resist and fret his head about it all bloody day, just to give in after about two sentences from a very determined Sherlock. What an utter waste of time.


	10. Challenging Closeness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have the last chapter. I hope some of you enjoyed the journey. I'm currently working on part 2 but it will take me a while until I will be able to post it as it is more difficult to write than this one. So long, guys! Thanks to everyone who gave kudos and commented.

“Could you perhaps… just lie on your back and…”

“…keep still like an overwhelmed, simpering virgin in the eyes of the big bad man?” Sherlock finished his sentence with a smirk.

“I think after last night we can safely say you've left the rest of your virginity behind,” Mycroft said drily. “I merely would like to…”

“…be in charge like you are in your fancy job?”

Mycroft grimaced. “…explore you, I wanted to say.” They were both fully naked and he somehow felt more exposed than last night where everything had been a blur of passion. It was nothing like this now. He didn’t doubt this was right anymore, not really. Because of course it wasn’t but that didn’t change a thing about them both wanting it. And if Sherlock had enough of it, he would surely let him know…

But now here they were, after the fantastic dinner Sherlock had cooked, both freshly shaven and ready to make another experience together.

“Oh, right.” Sherlock let himself slump on Mycroft's bed, moving his hands over his head. “You could tie me up!”

“Would you like that?” Mycroft was very surprised about this suggestion (not that he'd had this in mind or fancied any bondage play). After being locked up in a prison for nearly twenty years Sherlock wanted him to make him a prisoner of a completely different sort?

Sherlock grinned. “Why not. I trust you to free me again afterwards. Would you let me tie _you_ up?”

“No.” Mycroft had said it without even thinking, terrified of the sheer idea.

Sherlock laughed but immediately turned his face into a rather convincing frown. “I'm wounded that you don't trust me.”

Mycroft didn’t know how to answer to this. Of course he couldn’t really trust him. He hardly knew him! He had not even really known the little boy Sherlock had been so long ago as he had been so alien and closed up. And this decidedly dangerous man he had become, no matter how desirable and beautiful and nice to the dog and perfect at cooking he was … No. Mycroft wouldn’t want to be at his mercy even more than he already was…

Sherlock released him from his struggling to reply. “It's all right, big brother. No ties for now. I do hope you know that I'm of no danger to you.” Sherlock's voice grew more and more serious and quiet while he was speaking.

In fact Sherlock had shown no hint of aggression against him since he had moved in with him, apart from the little outburst over the butterflies. But trust him? No. He nodded nonetheless and hoped Sherlock would let the subject rest. “Just… relax and let me… do things,” Mycroft ended clumsily; what he had been about to say wouldn’t go over his lips - _'let me make love to you.'_ And he had just thought he didn’t trust him. How could he _love_ him? But he did… And it was hard to say how much of this love was a reminiscence of his feelings for the difficult but strangely fascinating little boy and how much was the love of an adult man for the other - decidedly even more fascinating albeit frightening - one. But there was no doubt that he loved him.

Not surprisingly Sherlock seemed to read it from his face and for a moment a look of something that resembled tenderness came to his eyes. Mycroft had seen this look before - but only directed at their dog (who had been told to stay in the kitchen by his younger master, and he even had seemed to understand and had happily taken a chew bone to his dog basket). “Fine with me. Show me how nice you can be. And how dirty.”

Nobody had ever described Mycroft as dirty… But he knew what Sherlock meant, and yes, this was about to become messy and dirty, and his cock that had stayed flaccid over this rather uncomfortable discussion started to fill out at the prospect.

*****

Sherlock was so impossibly smooth. Of course he had noticed that the night before already but now that he was slowly exploring him with his lips, kissing and nibbling his way from prominent collar bones over very receptive nipples and to the sensitive skin above his sternum, he realised that there was no hint of body hair – while he was hairy like a bear…

“Do you shave it?” he couldn’t suppress asking, immediately resuming his ministrations, and he grinned when Sherlock's chest moved against his mouth when his brother laughed.

“No, brother mine. I did notice the difference between us. But it's all natural on my side.”

“On mine, too,” Mycroft retorted drily, and Sherlock laughed again.

Hearing him laugh… He had never done as a child. He had always been so serious and introverted; only Redbeard had very rarely brought a smile to his pretty face. Mycroft liked it when he was laughing. He liked it very much indeed.

“Who would have thought,” Sherlock teased him, and Mycroft shuddered when he started playing with his right ear, just touching it very softly.

Mycroft had always disliked being so hirsute. It was so primitive and animalistic, and he was nothing like that. “Does it bother you?” he asked Sherlock. Of course he had never asked that any of his previous… encounters.

“Of course not. It looks hot. Manly. A man of power and testosterone.”

Certainly Mycroft had never seen it like this. But he had to admit he felt a little flattered. He was well aware that Sherlock was the handsome one of them and he… Well he wasn’t exactly ugly but… he looked more like someone who worked behind the counter of a bank or sold insurances while Sherlock looked so exotic. But then… It did suit him that his face was nothing to remember. He didn’t need to be overly attractive to perform his job, and he was obviously intimidating enough. And Sherlock did not only _look_ exotic after all… One more reason why his brother should keep from murdering people. He was way too easy to recognise…

He shrugged off the useless thinking for now and resumed working over Sherlock's tasty pink nipple with his teeth, assuming his brother might like to be teased a bit on the rough side, and Sherlock's moan told him he was right.

“Yes, brother,” the younger man breathed then. “I like that.”

Mycroft wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's hard shaft and started stroking up and down and guessed he might like this, too. And under Sherlock's constant moaning, he moved southwards with his mouth until his lips closed around the now seriously dripping cock, and his first thought was, _'God, he tastes so good.'_

He had never done this before. He wouldn’t have done it for anyone else. The few men he'd been with had pleased him this way though so he knew what felt good and what didn’t. Teeth _didn’t_ feel good so he thoroughly covered them with his lips. But Sherlock got so aroused that he started to wiggle under him, making his teeth inevitably scratch over the delicate skin. But he should have known his brother wouldn’t be bothered by that. In fact he started thrusting into his mouth, making him gag, but somehow this was a turn on for both, making Mycroft feel seriously animalistic and like it.

Mycroft sucked harder and fingered Sherlock's balls while he pleasured him with his mouth, producing slurping noises that he would have despised under any other circumstances, and then Sherlock bucked up and pulsed down his throat, and it was both horrible and highly arousing. He had hardly disentangled from his brother, his eyes full of tears, when he was pushed onto his back, and a moment later Sherlock was all over him.

He bit into his neck and damn, hopefully he wouldn’t leave a bruise, and then moved to his large red nipples under the chest hair, sucking them relentlessly in quick succession, and then he threw himself onto Mycroft's throbbing cock and sucked at it as if he was about to suck all life out of him.

It was rough and toothy and clumsy and wet and wonderful – and it was over within not even a minute. Mycroft was too far gone to last longer, and he pumped his seed into Sherlock's mouth without warning; not as a payback for Sherlock's action but because his climax had been ripped out of him from one second to the other.

He watched Sherlock licking his lips. “That was nice,” he said and let himself fall onto Mycroft's chest rather painfully.

But Mycroft didn’t mind. He closed his arms around his brother and mumbled, “Very nice.”

“My painting is very accurate.”

Mycroft smiled. “It is.”

“Can I fuck you later?” Sherlock asked him, his voice muffled as he was mumbling against Mycroft's neck.

“Sure.” He would not protest in any way anymore. And if Sherlock wanted to cuff his hands – he wouldn’t refuse it. They were in this together, and both enjoying themselves thoroughly. No second thoughts anymore, no guilty feelings. They were both grown men and this was what they wanted so this was what they would do.

“Great. Good big brother, fine cock-sucker.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Ditto, brother mine.”

And Sherlock lifted his head and smiled at him.

*****

“Does it hurt?”

Was there a bit of glee in Sherlock's voice? “No,” Mycroft brought out. “It's fine.”

“Hm. I wouldn’t say you appear to be the natural born bottom boy.”

Mycroft didn’t think so either. It did bloody hurt… He was on all fours, Sherlock placed behind him and in him, his long-fingered hands on Mycroft's rather fleshy hips. He had lost a lot of weight since Boy Sherlock had left the family; he exercised on his treadmill once in a while and tried to not eat too much unhealthy stuff but the fat on his hips and stomach was more persistent than Mummy when she brought up the totally pointless subject of Mycroft having to get married and give her grandchildren… Which was probably not the best subject to think about right now… The sting up his arse was bad enough.

“I can stop if you don't like it,” Sherlock suggested with surprising sensitivity.

“No. It's all good.”

“What have you just thought about?” Sherlock's voice didn’t even tremble though he was talking while still thrusting back and forth. A born multitasker…

“Mummy asking for grandchildren…” Mycroft said honestly, unable to think of a lie. And frankly it didn’t make that much sense to lie to Sherlock anyway. He could read him too well, and that he was facing away from him now wouldn’t change a thing about it.

Sherlock laughed out loud. “Oh well, if things were different, I'd say we're working on it…”

Now that was a thought…

“Would you fuck with me if I was a woman?” Sherlock asked after an exceptionally hard thrust that made Mycroft whimper very unmanly.

“Of course not! I'm not into women!”

“Quite literally then. But you know what I mean. If we could reproduce?”

“This is such a hypothetical question, Sherlock. But no. I would not.” A baby with his and Sherlock's genes. Mad for power and just…mad? Was Sherlock really mad? He didn’t appear like this anymore. If he compared his behaviour in Sherrinford with the man he was with now… He suspected that his brother's attitude during their first meeting had been mostly a ruse. Sherlock had simply wanted to shock him to see how much he could take. He might be ice-cold and ruthless but he wasn’t a lunatic. And his cruel game after moving in had been his means to make him agree to this… Not that it was overly pleasant right now. It was as if someone was stirring in him with a branch…

And then…

“Oh God!” What was that… It was… divine…

“Oh, found it.” Sherlock sounded proud, and Mycroft's entire body started to tingle when Sherlock repeatedly hit his prostate.

“Don't change the angle!” Mycroft blushed at the foreignness of his suddenly high-pitched voice, but Sherlock didn’t comment on it, and he kept on fucking him in a way that made his toes curl in pleasure, and then he howled and climaxed all over the towel he had put over the mattress. Still shivering through his orgasm, that he had reached untouched, he felt Sherlock release himself deep in his body, and it was such a weird but arousing feeling that he knew he wanted to do that again. And again…

“Come, lie down,” Sherlock said after pulling out, removing the soiled towel and tossing it aside.

Mycroft just collapsed on the mattress and Sherlock joined him, tucking his head under his chin.

“Thank you,” he said very quietly.

“What for? You just fucked me into heaven.” Mycroft didn’t think he had ever used this word before, except in cursing when he knocked his toe against a doorframe or cut his finger at a piece of paper. But between the two of them, it felt surprisingly natural.

“I'm glad I found the right technique in the end… I know you hated it before.”

“No, I didn’t. But yes, it did hurt a bit.”

“It was so awful, Mycie.” Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper now.

“What?” Mycroft was stunned. He had not expected that. Sherlock seemed to have been enjoying himself a lot!

“Not that. Sherrinford.”

“Oh.” Mycroft pulled him closer. They had hardly scratched the surface of this subject so far. In fact he had avoided asking his brother anything about it.

“Boring, Mycie. It was so boring. I only had my books. And they were not even mine… Got them from their library. I was… nothing. Nobody. A number. Someone to make jokes about. And sometimes… I exploded…”

Mycroft was listening without really breathing. Sherlock had never been so open to him. “I see,” he said, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder.

“I was lost. I've always been lost. There is nobody like me. Even you are normal compared to me.”

“Was that an insult?” Mycroft tried to bring a lighter note to this conversation. Not for his own sake but for Sherlock's.

Sherlock stayed serious. “No. You're great. Special in your own way, of course. I've always seen that, even as a kid. I looked up to you. But I couldn’t… show it. And then I had to go away… I wish… you had known about me being alive before.”

Mycroft had held his breath once more and his heart was clenching at Sherlock's genuine pain. “I wish that too, more than anything. Our parents thought they were doing the right thing but I really have no idea why they kept it from me. I could have helped you and believe me, I would have tried hard. I would have never let you down.”

“I know. Now I know. You've found me. You take me as I am. And you have no idea how much that means to me.” Sherlock sounded sleepy now, sleepy and emotional to an extent that Mycroft wouldn’t have thought possible.

Mycroft would have liked to get up and take a shower or at least refresh himself. He was covered in sweat and Sherlock's semen that was still dribbling out him but all he did was pulling his brother close when he dozed off and reached out to switch off the light on the nightstand. His heart was both aching about the suffering boy and young man in prison, and swelling with love for him and with gratitude and amazement that they were so close now.

And this thought didn’t even scare him anymore. They belonged together; it was as simple as that. He would protect Sherlock at all costs. He would make sure he would never feel lost and invisible again. He would never be a number again. His brother should always feel as safe and loved as a certain little dog in his soft basket full of toys.

The next moment he surprised himself with saying, “You did kill Onni's former owner, didn’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes but mumbled, “Course I did. Without even laying a finger on him.”

Mycroft nodded in the darkness. He didn’t say anything but pulled Sherlock close, and when he could feel his brother's lips against his neck, he smiled. And after a moment he said, “Glad you're on _my_ side.”

Sherlock chuckled against his skin. “Always, big brother.” And with this he drifted off to sleep, and Mycroft kept on holding his astonishing, special, extraordinary, challenging baby brother he wouldn’t trade for anyone in the world.

 

To be continued…


End file.
